‘I don’t think many teenagers do happy,’ I said, but I was remembering the two girls laughing in the grass outside Monk Bar, and a pang twisted like a cord deep inside me.
‘You don’t have any children?’
I shook my head. ‘Nope. No kids.’ For a moment my mind flickered to Lucas on the beach, and then away. Lucas wasn’t anything to do with me. ‘I don’t do commitment,’ I said to Drew, making my voice cheerful. ‘I like to keep moving. Never look back: that’s my motto.’
‘We’ll never make an historian of you then,’ he said lightly.
‘I’m afraid not.’ I chased the last brownie crumbs around the plate. ‘I’ve never seen the point of thinking about the past. I mean, you can’t change it, can you?’
‘No, but you can try and understand it. How can you make sense of the present unless you understand what has made it the way it is?’
‘I’m not sure I want to understand it,’ I said. ‘I just want to live it.’
‘You’re not planning on staying in York then?’
‘No. As soon as I’ve sorted out Lucy’s estate, I’m off—’ I broke off as my neck prickled, but when I swung round to look behind me, there was no one there, just a couple of women in an exhaustive discussion about some work crisis.
Drew didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘Back to Indonesia – oh, no – you never go back, do you?’
‘I’m thinking Mexico next. I’ve never been there.’ I pushed aside the conviction that someone was eavesdropping. ‘But I’ve got to sell Lucy’s house before I can pay the various legacies, and I’m not sure how long that will take. I’ll have to get myself a job to see me through, but York looks like the kind of place that would have some language schools, so I should be okay. I suppose I’ll have to sort out something about a funeral for Lucy too. I’ve no idea what she would have wanted.’
I hesitated, fingering the top of my pendant. ‘Sophie said that Lucy was a witch. Is it true?’
Drew blew out a long breath. ‘I don’t know what she was. All I know is that she filled Sophie’s head with a lot of nonsense, and I wish to God she hadn’t. Sophie’s always been . . . ’ He searched for the right word. ‘ . . . intense,’ he decided at last. ‘And she’s struggled to fit in. Lucy encouraged her to “explore her spiritual side”,’ he said, hooking his fingers in the air for emphasis, ‘and now she’s joined some cult set up by one of my ex-students. I didn’t trust the little toerag when I taught him, but he’s clever. He’ll make sure he always stays on the right side of the law.’
Drew sighed. ‘Karen and I have both tried telling Sophie how dangerous it is, but the more we try and discourage her, the more committed she is.’
‘She’ll grow out of it,’ I said. ‘If it’s any comfort, I did everything that would most make my father’s life a misery when I was Sophie’s age, but I got over it. Poor Dad,’ I remembered, shaking my head. ‘I gave him a really hard time.’
‘At least you weren’t messing around with the occult,’ said Drew gloomily.
‘Sophie’s just picked what will wind you up most. If you’d been a druid, she’d probably have joined the Young Conservatives.’
He smiled reluctantly at that. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said. I saw him look at his watch. ‘I’d better get on. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?’
‘Absolutely.’ Doing my best to disguise my disappointment, I got to my feet too and thanked him again for the coffee and the brownie. ‘I feel like a new woman,’ I said as I left.
It was true. By the time I came out of John Burnand’s office, tucking the envelope with Lucy’s few effects into my bag, I was back to my old self, and able to scoff at my earlier conviction that someone called Hawise (Hawise! Where had my subconscious come up with a name like that?) was in my head. Clearly the brownie had done the trick. Now all I needed was a square meal and a good night’s sleep, I decided.
I set off back to Lucy’s house, mentally compiling a list of everything that needed to be done before I could sell it, not really noticing where I was going until I found myself on the edge of a square.
I looked around, puzzled. I saw a hot-dog stall, a cycle rack jammed with bikes. It was still cool, but people were enjoying coffee at the tables and chairs set out in the spring sunshine. The shop on the corner was selling televisions, their brightly coloured pictures flickering at the edge of my vision.
I frowned. Where was the market cross? Where was the toll-booth? Where were the stalls and the peddlers, and the good-wives tutting over the vegetables and the countrywomen squatting by their baskets of eggs and butter? Thursday Market should be packed with traders and beggars and servants, and all the folk who come to gossip and to bargain and to buy.
‘Hawise!’ The hand on my arm makes me jump and I swing round, my hand at the ruff of my linen smock.
‘Oh, it’s you, Alice!’
‘I’ve been calling your name for an age,’ Alice complains. She is plump and pretty – and knows it, Elizabeth would have said – and beneath her cap she has very blue, slightly protuberant eyes, with long, fair lashes that she flutters against her milk-and-roses complexion. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’
‘No, I—’ I glance back at the market, but everything is as it should be. I can’t remember why I thought it wasn’t, and I shiver suddenly.
A goose walking over my grave.
‘Daydreaming again, I suppose,’ says Alice dismissively. She isn’t the kind of girl who wastes time on things that aren’t real.
She is distracted by Hap, sniffing at her gown, and she draws her skirts away with a shudder, pursing her rosebud mouth in disgust. ‘Get it away from me!’ she says and crosses herself furtively.
‘He’s not doing any harm,’ I say, but I click my fingers and Hap returns reluctantly to my side and sits, his withered paw tucked into his chest. I can’t understand why everyone can’t see how clever he is, but if they could, they would probably be even more afraid of him. Being black and only having three legs is bad enough. If they thought he was clever, too . . . well, I have noticed that cleverness is not much admired.
‘You shouldn’t take it around with you, Hawise,’ Alice says, eyeing Hap with dislike. ‘People talk.’
People don’t like it. I remember Elizabeth saying that. She said I had to be careful of my reputation, and I have been trying. I keep my eyes downcast and I walk slowly, and I don’t think about what it would be like to fly any more. I don’t wonder about the lands where cloves and peppers grow any longer – or not out loud. Instead I talk about the neighbours and wonder where I will find a husband. I have changed. I am just like everyone else, the way Elizabeth said I should be. But I cannot change how I feel about Hap. I don’t care what folk say; he is a good dog.
‘Did you want something?’ I ask Alice coolly.
‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ Ignoring my tone, she tucks a hand into my arm, taking care to stay on the other side of me from Hap, and we head into the market together.
‘Oh?’ It’s not like Alice to be so friendly. I know she thinks I’m odd. Dick overheard her saying so once, but she would never say it to my face. In spite of their peculiar choice of a servant like me, the Beckwiths have a good reputation in the city. My master, William Beckwith, is an alderman, and warden of the ward. He is a prosperous draper, a warm man, as they say, and owns tenements all over York, as well as a fine house in Goodramgate. Alice is servant to a hatter. The Swinbanks are well enough, but they can’t compare with the Beckwiths. Alice may not envy me my looks or my dog or my father, but she envies me my place in the Beckwith household, and she is always careful to be polite to my face.
‘I am betrothed to John Wightman. Look!’ She flaps the pair of gloves she is carrying. ‘My betrothal gift,’ she says proudly.
‘That is good news indeed, Alice,’ I say.
Alice leans closer. ‘And we’ve done it,’ she whispers.
I am half-shocked, half-envious. I have never even kissed a boy. Mistress Beckwith keeps her se
rvants close, but I am afraid that the real reason I have never been courted is because I am dark and thin and sallow-skinned, and my eyes are odd. What man is ever going to want me, with my fierce brows and my flat bosom and my strange eyes? It’s not even as if I have a dowry.
Still, I would like to know what it is like to be courted, to be wanted. I would like someone to make me smile the cat-that’s-got-the-cream smile that Alice is wearing. Too often these days I can feel my blood pumping, and something restless and dark quivering deep in my belly. The thought of kissing, of doing it, kicks my pulse up a notch. I don’t like to admit it, even to myself, but the truth is that I am envious of Alice.
We are pushing our way through the crowded market, dodging the puddles as best we may. The chamberlains still haven’t mended the paving, in spite of the pains laid on them in the wardmote court, and there are deep ruts where the countrymen’s carts have stuck, while the cobbles are covered in mud and vegetable scraps and fish scales and sodden straw and dung.
The stallholders are shouting enticements over the sounds of the peddlers crying their trinkets and the clucking of chickens in their wicker cages. Beggars skulk on the edges of the market, plucking at gowns and calling for charity. A boy weaves past us, balancing a tray on top of his head, and the smell that drifts from it makes me sniff appreciatively. ‘Hot pies! Hot pies!’ he cries, but you can hardly hear him in the hubbub of conversation. It is always like this on market days.
There is so much noise that no one is going to overhear us, but I lower my voice anyway. ‘What is it like?’ I ask Alice, because I want to know and there is no one else I can ask. Elizabeth would have told me, if she had known. ‘You know . . . doing it?’
‘It’s all right,’ she says carelessly. ‘Hurts a bit at first, but it gets better.’ Her lips curve as she thinks about it. ‘A lot better. And it keeps John happy.’
I would like to ask more, but don’t want Alice to know how ignorant I am. ‘And when will you be wed?’ I ask instead.
‘Soon. My family have given their consent, so now it’s just a dowry to be agreed. It is time you had a sweetheart too, Hawise,’ Alice says, her smile sharp as pins. ‘You must be, what, twenty?’
‘I am nineteen,’ I say stiffly, turning my basket out of the way of a wheezing goodwife.
‘I hear that you have an admirer,’ she says with a sly look.
‘I? No!’
She arches her brows at me. ‘Don’t tell me that you haven’t noticed?’
Infuriatingly, she stops then to admire some ribbons on a peddler’s tray. I know she is just doing it to tease and I am tempted to ignore her, but I am intrigued, I admit it.
‘Noticed what, Alice?’
‘Mistress Rogers has new lodgers. They say Mr Phillips is a notary from London. He has business with my Lord President, no less.’
I gape at her. My Lord Mayor and his brethren are pleased to think they rule this city, but we all know that they have to do whatever the Council of the North tells them. The Lord President is here in place of the Queen herself, and there is no one in York who dare say him nay.
A notary who has dealings with the Council of the North, let alone my Lord President . . .
‘And he has noticed me?’
‘Not Mr Phillips!’ Alice rolls her eyes. ‘His assistant!’
‘But I don’t know any assistant.’
‘Well, it seems he knows you. He asked Anthony Pusker who you were, after church. I can’t believe you didn’t see him, Hawise. It’s not as if there are that many new faces in the congregation!’
She is fingering the ribbons, pretending to consider buying a blue one. ‘A farthing to you, pretty lady,’ cajoles the peddler, but Alice is more interested in my reaction, which is clearly exactly what she wanted.
‘Anthony told him you were in service with the Beckwiths. I’m surprised he hasn’t found an excuse to meet you. He is a clean and sober man by all accounts, and he will be a notary.’ She purses her lips, totting up his prospective worth in her head. ‘You could do worse.’
I am dumbfounded. ‘But why would he be interested in me?’
Alice surveys me critically. ‘You’re dark,’ she agrees, ‘but there’s something about you, all the same. Haven’t you seen the way men watch you?’
‘What men? How?’ I stutter. ‘How do they look?’
‘You know . . . with heat in their eyes. No, not today,’ she adds to the peddler, dropping the ribbon back on the tray and turning away.
‘Two for a farthing!’ he calls after her desperately, but Alice just waves a dismissive hand. ‘I’ll let John buy me a ribbon at the fair. Come on, Hawise.’
With Hap still at my heels, I trail after her. I’m not sure why. I think I am too astounded by the vision of myself as someone men notice. Is it possible? I think of Mr Beckwith’s guests. Sometimes, when I serve at table, I catch their eyes and they always look quickly away. Their cheeks grow ruddy and my master snaps at me to leave them. I have never seen any heat in their eyes. Alice is mistaken, I am sure of it.
But I long to believe that she is right.
We are skirting the edge of the market, past the countrywomen who squat by their baskets filled with lumpy beans and onions, with carrots and fresh green peapods. It has been a poor summer so far, but at last there are fresh salad herbs and spinach and cucumbers to buy again. My mistress has sent me to buy eggs, but she has a fondness for strawberries, and I hesitate when I see some. The countrywoman sees me looking and immediately holds out a strawberry for me to try.
‘Fresh and very sweet, Mistress,’ she promises. Her fingers are stained red with the juice, and there are splatters like blood on her apron, but when she catches sight of Hap by my side, she curls her lip back with a hiss and crosses herself.
I am not going to buy her strawberries now. I am about to tell her how ignorant she is, when a furious shouting and snarling erupts over the cacophony of the market place and, not sorry to have the excuse to leave her, I turn.
‘What is it?’ says Alice.
‘Let’s find out.’
I take a step, but then hesitate. I have the same feeling I had when Alice startled me at the entrance to the market. It is almost as if I’m not properly here, as if I am looking at myself from afar and there is a voice in my head shouting, ‘No!’
I shake the feeling aside. Too much cheese when I broke my fast this morning. ‘Hap, stay close,’ I say, snapping my fingers.
‘You’re one as would push to see a hole in the calsey,’ my mistress always says, and adds darkly, ‘one of these days you’ll fall down it, if you’re not careful.’
But I’m not alone. A dense crowd has already gathered, and Alice and I have to hold our baskets in front of us as we squeeze our way through. Hap is pressed into my skirts. He doesn’t like it when folk stand too close. There are too many opportunities for kicking, and I bend to pick him up. He’s a small dog, and it’s easy to tuck him under my arm.
When we duck at last under the jostling arms, we find ourselves on the edge of a circle that has formed around two men. I see Miles Fell holding back his snarling mastiff, while Nicholas Ellis, a tailor, is hopping up and down, one hand to his bloody leg and the other clenched into a furious fist.
‘You whoreson!’ Ellis is shouting. ‘You lumpish, Hell-hated knave! I will have you arrested, yes – and that toad-spotted dog of yours too. Do you know how much I paid for this hose? I’ll see you whipped out of the city at the cart’s arse!’
Opinion in the crowd is divided. Nobody likes Fell. He is a miller, and surly as they come, with dark, heavy features and slovenly habits. Mr Beckwith is always trying to get him to repair the calsey at Castle Mills, but the road is as bad as ever, and all my master gets in return is a mouthful of abuse. That bitch of his is as bad-tempered as her master too. Even I cross to the other side of the causeway to avoid walking past her.
She is big even for a mastiff, and when she snarls she looks remarkably like her master. Her bite must have been
painful, but Nick Ellis seems more concerned about his hose.
‘Peacock!’ my master snorts contemptuously whenever Ellis’s name is mentioned, but I think he is more like a cat, picking his way carefully along the street and shuddering at dung heaps. He is always complaining about the blocked gutters that ooze onto the footway and spoil his shoes.
Beside me, two apprentices are jeering, calling out insults and encouragement indiscriminately to both men. The miller has such a savage hold on his dog that she is like to choke, but he is spewing curses back at Nicholas Ellis and doesn’t notice.
‘That dog should be muzzled,’ Nick shouts over him, trying to get the crowd on his side now. ‘The city passed an ordinance. You all know that. Where are the constables? Those mangy louts are never around when you need them!’
We have formed a big circle around them as if watching a show, but I’m losing interest. ‘I’m going,’ I say to Alice, but that’s when my gaze snags on the young man across from me. He is so neat in comparison to his neighbours that I am surprised I haven’t noticed him before. He has glossy, chestnut-coloured hair, a tidy beard and eyes so intense that, when they meet mine, my heart seems to stumble.
‘That’s him!’ Alice pinches my arm. ‘Mr Phillips’s assistant!’
I look back at him, and he smiles as if he knows we are talking about him. Still I can’t help glancing over my shoulder to see if it is really me he is smiling at, but everyone else is watching Miles Fell, who is running out of curses and turning away like a sulky bear. When I look back, I suppose Me? must be written across my face, because his smile broadens and he nods.
Alice nudges me. ‘See?’
A young man has smiled at me. It is nothing. For most girls – girls like Alice – it would mean nothing at all, but I feel flushed and elated and apprehensive all at the same time.
Time's Echo Page 5
